Lost on a Straight Road
by Eliza Urchin
Summary: After "Home" Angel leaves L.A with Connor and (surprisingly) Wesley in tow, planning to start a new life away from all their troubles. If only life was that simple. But it turns out problems are a lot like dust-bunnies; they follow you when you move.
1. This Mad World

**Authors Note:** **PLEASE READ.** Please do not ask me to get rid of Connor or focus on other characters or bring your favorite characters in. I'm tired of it. The main characters of this story are posted in the summary, if you do not like these characters you should not be reading this. I have clearly stated what kind of story this is, and if you want to read something else you should find a different story to read instead of asking me to change this one. Thank you for your time.

* * *

**Lost on a Straight Road**

By Eliza Urchin (AKA Davy Jones Locker)

Angel pulled his car against the curb and shoved it into park. The underground lot was deserted except for a few newspapers fluttering on the ground, and broken bottles clanking against the fence. Normally the area was clean, the Hyperion wasn't in terribly bad part of town. The trash and dented fence poles were recent, and not so much careless, as crazed. Angel sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling sad and slightly ashamed as he opened his door and climbed out.

He reached into the back of his car and pulled out a paper grocery bag, settling it into the crook of his arm while he closed his front door, and tried to ignore the blood on the backseat, even as he clenched a sticky hand on the bottom of the bag that was soaked through. He trudged across the parking lot, head down, ignoring the mad screaming and thuds from the street above.

He climbed the basement steps to the lobby, entered an elevator, and punched in the number of his floor. The elevator pinged and after a few faulty tries closed its doors. The place was really falling apart, Angel thought, picturing those fifty something building code violations he still had stacked away… somewhere.

He sighed and started shuffling through the grocery bag. Paper towels, medical gauze, mashed potatoes, three foot long turkey sandwiches, salad, fried chicken, soda, chocolate donuts… maybe he'd gone a little over board, but he wanted Connor to eat and he didn't know what he liked. A thought that made him feel more horrible by the minute. Connor was his son, he should know something about him; at least what his diet was, but what did he know? That Connor chose a sword over an axe and he could jump off a nine story building. Of course Connor didn't exactly make it easy to get to know him, Angel groused in his own head. He'd made it clear from the get go he wanted nothing to do with his demon father. Whenever Angel approached he'd get angry sneers, subtle insults and occasionally weapons thrown at him.

Once he'd walked into one of the abandoned rooms they used for storage, looking for something he couldn't remember now. Connor had been there, lounging on a sheet covered armchair, frowning at the book in his hand. Angel was surprised to say the least, he hadn't thought Connor liked reading since he never saw him at it and he'd brusquely refused to be any help in research.

Connor had looked up when he heard the door open and they'd had a moment to stare at each other, Angel desperately grasping for something to say. But he didn't even get to voice Connor's name before his son got off his chair and left the room, without a nod, or snarl or anything. He just left. Angel didn't know why, but even with all the fights, and beatings and shouting and trauma between them, that was his most painful memory. It had cut him deeply the way they just brushed past each other, so close yet never touching. Like best friends destined to never meet. He hadn't even been worth a passing jibe, he was just nothing. And that was his greatest fear, to be nothing to his son, and nothing for him.

He clutched tighter to the bloody bottom of the grocery bag, watching the glowing numbers above the door slowly ticking upward, 2nd, 3rd, 4th. He hoped the paper towels weren't getting soggy, he couldn't remember if he'd put them on the bottom or not. He'd been in such a rush at the store he hadn't noticed what he grabbed or where he put it. The Safeway had been a mad house. Shelves were knocked down, products rolling over the floor, people madly looting whatever they could grab. The cashiers had long since fled, some of them probably with their arms full. Angel thought about leaving the money by a register, but figured it would probably be stolen long before any sane management came out to collect it.

The elevator dinged his stop and Angel stepped out into the darkened hall. All the lights were set on dim, the ones that still worked that is. Some of the lamps were shattered or cracked, and they looked like black holes spread over the art deco wallpaper while the still working lamps ran a diminishing line of yellow squares round the corner. A soft brushing sound came down the hall and Angel stilled. He shifted to the side, melting into the shadows between the lamps and cocked his head to listen. The noise came again, a sort of swish swish sound and the creek of someone trying to walk extra quietly over old floorboards.

Angel's fingers curled into a fist while he slid, silent as a ghost, down the hall towards the sound. His teeth clenched and his demon felt a rush of territorial rage.

In the after math of Jasmine the hotel had emptied. The worshipers and stragglers disappeared, his friends went home, and the Hyperion was left with only himself and an echo of voices. Everything outside its walls broke into chaos, rioters screaming, fires burning, but inside his hotel it was quiet. It remained removed from everything outside, like a dug out lair, and he felt safe bringing his son back here. It made a nice hideaway for them both.

Strange how he'd become so overprotective all of a sudden. When did he become such a brooding hen? When Connor was born … six months ago? God it was confusing. His head felt like it was full of a mosquito swarm with every minute of the past four months buzzing together in a high pitched whine. He was exhausted, yet totally awake, and so energetic he was jittery. he felt he could go on and on and on. He'd probably crash soon actually, but before his body gave out, he'd move Connor.

With the sound of an intruder walking the halls Angel felt they're safety violated, and he was frightened that the stranger was between him and Connor. Connor, who was nearly catatonic after his breakdown in the mall; who would be vulnerable. If getting to him hadn't been an issue Angel simply would have grabbed his son and moved him somewhere else safe. They would have disappeared right under the intruder's nose without him knowing they'd ever been there. He was reminded of the stray cats around his home in Galway that used to move their litters whenever they were discovered, always disappearing into obscurity. Again, just when had he become a crazy mother hen?

The stranger drew closer and Angel morphed, letting his ridges and wicked teeth come out. His demon was ready to kill on sight, mindlessly bent on destroying whoever dared violate his lair and pose a danger to his son. He whispered around his fangs as the stranger came,

"One more step, just one more." The scuffing shoes came closer and Angel shot round the corner, slamming whoever it was into the opposite wall. His victim didn't have time to gasp before he had a cold hand clamped around their throat and his fangs pressed to their skin. He was riled and not making sense of the intruder's mix of smells, smoke, bourbon, and blood. He spoke around their gasping.

"big mistake trying to sneaking in here pal. If I was feeling merciful I'd just tell you to get out, find some other hole to crash in, but I've had a really bad day and my mercy is. All. Worn. Out." He tightened his grip on the soft throat as he growled the last words, and through his clenching, a tiny squeak came out.

"A… a… An..gel," it choked. Angel blinked and pulled back, his face shifting to human in surprise as he looked at the man he was crushing into the wall.

"Wesley," he said, shock coloring his voice. "What are you doing here, I thought you were taking the grand tour of Wolfram and Hart with the others?"

Wesley's eyes bulged and his redden cheeks tried to move into an answer as he gestured at his neck, which Angel still held in a rock solid grip.

"C..an't… breath," he gasped in one big puff of air, the tips of his ears turning purple with the effort. Angel's eyes widened and he took his hand away, sheepishly scratching his neck while Wesley puddled to the floor gulping air like a dying fish.

"Sorry Wes, I guess I'm just a little, uh, jumpy. You know how crazy everything outside is."

"Yes, I do actually," Wesley gasped as he pulled himself back on his knees. "People screaming Jasmine's name while they rob their way down Hollywood boulevard." He put a hand to the wall and pulled himself back to his feet, rubbing his sore neck and shoving off the hand Angel offered. "While those fortunate enough to remain unaffected offer each other coffee from high glass windows." He stood by himself now, looking at Angel with a raw humor and still rubbing his throat, though the ache wasn't from Angel's hand anymore but memories. "Ironic isn't it that the heroes have done the damage while Evil Incarnate offers to fix it?"

Angel planted his hands on his hips, he was no longer smiling, and he didn't care to be drawn into a semantics argument with Wesley. He was far to tired.

"What are you doing here Wesley?" he asked, hard and cold. He was slowly inching down the hall, toward where he'd left Connor, sparing glances towards his door.

"He's fine." Wesley said. Angel turned fully back to him, glaring.

"What?"

"Connor, he's fine. I just came from checking on him. He's unusually quiet, but fine."

"What do you…?" Angel snarled, his eyes starting to flicker red.

"Look in on him," Wes interrupted, sharply cutting him off. "I'll be waiting in the office when your done." Then he turned and walked towards the beeping elevator, with its faulty doors and dark corners. Angel stood for a moment, hands on hips, fuming at Wesley's back. Then he spun around and marched down to Connor's door, allowing his black boots to scuff on floor.

* * *

Connor sat on the floor in a patch of sun, with his back against his unmade bed and legs stretched out carelessly before him. His head lolled back against the mattress while he stared up at the ceiling as if the plaster could answer all his questions. 

He felt like he should be hurting a great deal, but he didn't. He didn't feel anything at all except cold. Chill air from the open window seeped through his body down into his bones, numbing his face and fingers and toes. He could barely feel his own nails scratching the scab on his elbow.

The sun was gray and didn't warm him, nor did it brighten the room around him. The walls were gray, the carpet was gray, the ceiling was gray, and the few shadows clinging to the curtains were only a darker gray. The only bit of color in his vision was the faded blue of the bed sheets by his ear. His cheek brushed the soft flannel as he leaned a little more to the right, away from the door and the heavy footsteps marching up the hall.

He scratched a little harder on his arm as the booted feet neared his door. The tender new skin under the scab enjoyed the attention, stinging slightly as the nails stimulated his placid nerves. He wondered idly how long he'd sat here picking at his scabs and sores.

His thoughts were mercurial, sliding from one thing to the next. His higher brain functions had ceased to make any kind of normal sense and they struggled on with a blind need to keep going, though his body seemed to have been left behind somewhere. The last few days were a blur, and somewhere after finding Cordy's body in the church his mind had detached itself from the events around it. It climbed a notch above where it usually functioned, to a level he didn't understand, and from that safe perch looked down at his body; indifferently commentating as it was tossed about from event to reckless event.

He heard the door creak open behind him and a tentative shuffle tiptoe into the room. The Room. He didn't think of it as his, not really. His attic loft had been his, with the smell of old fur and saw dust. This room, he thought, his eyes traveling the corners of the ceiling, this room belonged to Dad. It was part of his home, part of the many leveled maze where he made his lair. Connor always felt like an unwanted guest here, or a box of valuables put into storage.

Behind him Dad put something on the dresser, then sat down behind him making the bed moan. It was a very old mattress and the bed frame was probably several decades beyond that. Since no one had ever bothered to get new furniture in the hotel the metal bits had rusted.

He raised his hand up to his eyes and contemplated his fingers. There was blood under his nails. He dropped his hand and stared at the pebbly, insulated ceiling. There was a buzzing next to his ear, like someone talking… he dug farther into the sore on his elbow.

He wondered if Adam and Eve were amebas who reproduced by mytosis. If god made people, and if people evo… evo-loaded, from cells and fish than that must mean Adam and Eve were amebas, and Eve split into lots of other amebas, and they split into more. Which would explain how her two sons had children when Eve, Adam, and their sons were the only four people in the world. Either that or they sinned by incest with their mother…

Fred was so insistent about that whole Evo-Lotion thing. Fred… always so sure of herself. She knew everything, what made the stars spin, and the ocean crash, and the sky blue. She knew how glass was made and what sand used to be. But she couldn't answer his questions. She couldn't tell him why he made god angry…

The bed squeaked and Dad leaned closer, a shadow looming over his shoulder kept away only by the gray sunlight. He was mumbling something, probably important, but Connor couldn't find the energy to care. He wondered instead if people were really _meant_ to exist, or if maybe it was all a huge mistake, like one of Fred's failed experiments that left a funky smell in the bathroom. Dad kept talking, and Connor wondered if ants were as conscious as he was, and if so did that mean there was some great all knowing creature to whom he was just an ant?

Dad got up, and turned away from him. He heard him shuffling toward the door, and a soft click as it closed. He rolled his head left and looked at the paper bag with blood staining the bottom that dad had left on the dresser. Connor wondered if it held a severed head.

* * *

Angel sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets as he dragged his feet back down the hall, leaving behind room 216 with its unhappy occupant. A headache was steadily building between his eyebrows as he walked, and each step seemed to make it thump harder. Deciding to fore-go the faulty elevator and its potentially loose cables, he turned right and took the stairway. 

At the balcony over looking the lobby he paused, resting his arms on the banister and stared down at the sad vestiges of his detective agency. The front desk was a mess. Books, pens and open files were strewn everywhere as if the person working on those dossiers had run out for just a minute. Except the lights were out and the Lobby was dark. One could see 'recently abandoned' turning into 'perpetually derelict' any time; everyone had left in a hurry and nobody would be coming back, except for… his eyes roved over to the dark corners of the office… Wesley.

Wesley was busy at the front, Stuffing newspaper clippings into folders, piling them on the lobby counter, and throwing old plastic plates into the trash. For a moment he resembled the bookish little clerk he used to be, framed by his stacks of files with a pen clutched in his mouth. But the illusion was broken as soon as he moved, and you could see the wicked scar that sliced through his neck. His hair was scruffy, a permanent stubble dusted his chin and his face was hollowed and by too many hours spent reading by poor light. A desk lamp shed yellow light over the counter, highlighting the bones of his face.

Angel slowly took the steps down to the first floor. Very little natural light made it into the lobby and what there was, was gray and stopped at the entrance terrace. Without lights, the lobby was as dark as a cave. When Wesley turned around Angel stood between the end of the counter and the wall, blocking the way out. The look on his face was like a dark anchor tugging his eyebrows down. His mouth was a thin line and his eyes glinted as if somewhere behind them, a smithy was sharpening swords.

Wesley blinked, and took the pen out of his mouth. He'd received so many looks of spite and fury from Angel in the last sixth months that he was becoming dangerously numb to them. He didn't let himself feel the pain they would have once induced, or feel anything at all. Lately, he mused, as he lay down the file and leaned his elbow against the counter, he didn't even look at himself in the mirror. Which would explain his lack of grooming, he thought, rubbing the stubble on his chin. When he _did_ shave he only wiped off the steam surrounding the reflection of his mouth. Then he never had to look himself in the face, and feel sick.

Their staring match was interrupted by a tiny beeping near the back wall. They both looked back at the corner of the office where a red light was blinking on the microwave, and Wesley jerked a thumb at it, turning back to the dossier at his elbow.

"It's for you." He said. Angel frowned, confused, and shuffled over to where the microwave and coffee pot rested by boxes old Chinese food on the mini fridge. When he popped the door he was greeted by the sweet, oxidized smell of hot blood steaming from a mug. He took the drink out, holding it in both hands close to his face, savoring the iron smell and prickly heat in his palms. He sucked in a long whiff and sunk down into Cordelia's old desk chair, taking a sip from his drink.

"You look tired," Wesley said, coming up opposite him and pulling a box down from the shelf. Angel rubbed his forehead and groaned.

"I am tired," he said. "Tired, sore, slightly nihilistic…" He watched as Wesley started packing the files he'd ordered into the box. "You don't have to do that Wes," he said. Wesley only paused for a moment, then continued saying,

"It's either this or go home and try to sleep. I don't think any of us are ready to try that yet. Insomnia naturally breeds cleanliness it seems, might as well tidy up while we can."

"Don't bother" Angel murmured, sipping his blood. "They're not coming back."

"I know." Wesley whispered, head bent over his box. "I met Lorne and the others after our tours." He said louder. "Actually we were surprised not to find you there as well; we all assumed you would have slipped in at the last moment. Lilah was rather despondent. She had big plans for you no doubt

"Mmm, no doubt."

"Lorne couldn't be happier. He's written up a new contract for himself and somehow got them to sign. They're paying for his airline to New York and put him in contact with some Broadway agents, entirely freelance. I think he'll do well there. Gunn is going to stay on at the firm full time, and Fred's taken their grant money to finish her dimensional studies. She said something about starting a demon Science Magazine."

"That's good." Angel said, looking down and swirling the ruby contents of his cup. "Good for them." Wesley set the full box aside and took another one from the shelves.

"You don't seem very surprised." He said softly, looking side long at the vampire as he folded the cardboard open.

I'm not." Angel answered. "Wolfram and Hart, all their resources, it was too good an offer to turn down and I guess they needed it after the last year… its okay. That's how life goes. People come and go, they meet, they live and they part." He took another drink, licking his red lips clean. "After two hundred plus years you learn to know the signs. Angel Investigations is gone and by tomorrow we'll be gone too. I'm leaving the keys on the doors; they can take them tonight when they come by to tell me the news. You can take the hotel or sell it I don't care. There's nothing for you to do here Wesley, go home." he hauled himself up out of his chair, setting the mug down on Cordelia's desk, and walked out of the lobby office. "I'm sure you have suits to press," he said.

"No. I don't actually" Wesley said to Angel's back. Angel turned around at the counter, looking back with brows knit in puzzlement. "I didn't take the contract," Wesley clarified. "Besides all my suits have been rendered useless by either green blood stains or bullet holes."

"What?"

"I didn't take their offer."

"I know. I meant… _what?_"

"I hardly think I can make it clearer." A massive glare from Angel settled on his head. "I'm just a Watcher Angel," Wesley said, looking down at his hands, "that's all I can to do." He didn't sound sad or self deprecating like he used to, but darkly humored, like he would laugh at the irony of it all if only he could get himself to smile.

"You could have done that there," Angel said. Wesley shook his head while he set his second box on the counter and got back to work.

"Perhaps, but at Wolfram and Hart I'd be just another cog in their machine, and everything they showed me, the knowledge, power, unlimited resources, all suddenly seem so paltry." he tapped his fingers on the binding of a leather volume on Third Century black magic. "Useless. All that knowledge means nothing without a champion to support. I had to make a choice about where I belonged, and now I know." He looked hard at Angel. "Adventure and horror will find you wherever you go because of who you are, and you need me more than they do whether you think so or not. Besides, practicality aside, do you really think you can handle Connor alone?"

Angel's regretful expression suddenly grew icy cold. The temperature in the room seemed to drop to sub zero levels as he spun around and stormed toward the stairs, his glower making the shadows themselves cringe away from him. Wesley followed, speaking to his back.

"Dealing with someone mad takes a hundred and ten percent of your time and con…"

"I know," Angel cut him off. "I've been responsible for them before. Look it up in your watcher diaries, D for Drusilla.

"But you were Angelus then. You didn't take care of her. You allowed her tag along on your rampages when it pleased you and abandoned her when it didn't. This is a totally different matter. No one who cares deeply for a charge like this can do it alone without losing them selves, not even a champion, and that is the last thing Connor needs." Angel whirled around on the first step, pointy a shaky finger at Wesley's nose below him and snarling around his words

"What the _hell _do you know about what Connor needs? I didn't see you trying to help him in all those long hours you spent hanging around with your nose up your books." Wesley's face grew hard "A lot of good your books did him. I can handle this on my own."

"Can you? Really? This isn't some simple slay the demon problem. We've all seen Connor's deterioration since he came to this world, and the slippery plunge his mind took. Even those of us with our nose up our books instead of our…" he paused and took a deep calming breath. "Do you have anything resembling a plan?"

"We're leaving. I'm taking him somewhere else, somewhere safe."

"And you think it's that simple? Angel the boy upstairs is practically catatonic! Whatever just happened to him is not going to disappear with wishing. You have to…"

"You're not in any position to have a say in this, _Wesley_." Angel ground out. There was a long pause while the two old friends glared at each other, a feeling of glacier of ice filling up the air between them.

"Sometimes Angel," Wesley spoke slow and bleakly, "moving away from trouble isn't enough."

"Yeah, and sometimes it is. A change of scenery can sooth the soul. It gives you a fresh start when you need a place to build better memories, and kick starts the brain… believe me I know."

"Where did you have in mind?"

"Seattle."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Chap 2**

* * *

_and I find it kinda funny_

_I find it kinda sad_

_that these dreams in which I'm dying_

_are the best I've ever had._

* * *

There was nothing to breath. His face was covered by a stretch of cloth that pushed into his mouth and nose blocking all access to oxygen. The burning line on his neck throbbed with every gasp and inside his chest his lungs began to falter and burn. _I'll never forgive you. You took my son. I'll kill you._ He didn't seem to have any arms; for when he reached up to relieve the pressure stuffing heavy cloth into his face there was nothing there. Fear pumped through his veins so fast it made his head spin, and the urgency that made him clutch more and more wildly at the nothingness holding him down also made him gasp faster and lose more air. The pressure kept on, slowly suffocating him and he felt himself dieing while above him the howl of a deep raging voice pounded into his head. _I'll kill you. I'll kill you, you bastard! Your dead man Pryce. A dead man!_

Wesley snapped awake thrusting his right arm out to stab an unseen enemy, the last words of his dream still echoing in his ears. _Dead man._ The walls and paintings and air seemed to whisper it. _Dead man._ He jerked upright in the chair he'd slumped in, one hand reaching up to clasp his throat as he gasped for air. Sometimes at night he still had trouble breathing. The doctors had said it was just a reflex, nothing was really blocking his throat anymore and it would go away given time. Unfortunately no one could say when that would be. Heart thudding against his ribs, he slowly re-gathered his wits and recent memory, eyeing the office's pealing green painted and badly hung paintings. He and Angel had been sweeping down the lobby all day. He'd come in to clear out the safe and must have shut his eyes a second to long. He looked across his left arm at the desk where stacks of brown folders and a silver money case lay together. He'd dropped off without realizing it.

Wesley gave his throat one last rub and pulled himself forward in the leather desk chair, making it squeak on its wheels, and glanced at the china clock. Five forty five. At least he'd only slept an hour or so, he thought with relief. The grogginess slowly bled out of him as he sat, head leaning against the palm of his hand, bent over the desk and staring vacantly at the clock.

The office was dark, the lamps turned off, and the indistinct shapes of furniture melded together into some weird excuse for an expressionist painting. A warm yellow glow seeped in under the door crack from the lobby and Wesley could hear the shuffling of papers and feet and the soft scraping of a box. So Angel was still hard at work then. Wesley shook his head in disbelief leaning further into his palm. Fourteen hours and not a break. No sleep, no pause, he just kept going and going, chugging along like some u unbreakable steam engine. It was _inhuman_. A wicked chuckle hopped past Wesley's cracked lips, and the sound of scraping outside stopped. A moment later the office door opened and Wesley shut his eyes against the sudden invasion of light.

"Wesley." Angel's dark voice mumbled. "Wes." And Wesley opened his eyes a crack, wishing they would adjust faster to light instead of just whining about it. Angel's broad shouldered silhouette stood at the corner of the desk blocking out part of the light. "You're awake." He said. Wesley worked his cottony jaw round in a yawn that insisted on coming out and mumbled back,

"Just barely."

"Well, I need to use the phone." Angel said, pointing at the black plastic on the other side of Wesley's chin. Wes blinked and shook himself.

"Oh, yes, right." He murmured and hauled himself out of the chair's warm embrace. Angel swung the chair around and sat down in Wesley's place, flicking on the desk lamp over the phone while Wes wandered to the window looking over the reception area. He cracked his neck from side to side and leaned both hands on the bottom sill, staring at the desolate grotto of the lobby.

It was still dark but the shadows had lengthened with night as had the illusion of lamplight. Circles of yellow light overlapped each other in geometric patterns on the floor, covering up the stains from a still visible pentagram. The faded brown lines sent waves of menace crawling up his spine whenever he looked at it. But except for the symbol which neither magic nor Clorox could lift, the place was bare. No calling cards sat on the counter. Furniture was pushed into corners and covered in linen. The weapons cabinet was stripped down to its boards with one door hanging open. Even the dust had been swept away by their passing back and forth, and shoving boxes over the counter. It was as if all spirit had been drained out of the place by some unholy vacuum, sucking their lives into oblivion. Wesley ran a hand over his mouth and settled it into a fist under his lower lip. Behind him he could hear Angel flipping through the address book. So, they were really leaving, and to Seattle no less, the city of constant drizzle and suburban monotony. Whatever possessed Angel to choose that forsaken place?

"Do you realize it rains nine months of the year in Seattle?" he asked, still pondering the lobby. Angel looked up for a moment then shifted in his seat and flipped another card.

"That's not bad thing," he replied. Wesley turned, leaning his body against the window frame and crossing his arms.

"And none of us own any cold weather gear?"

"We can buy some."

"I don't need to tell you again I think this is a bad idea," Wesley pressed, taking a step forward.

"No you really don't," Angel answered, not looking up from the address deck. Wesley sighed and turned back to the window. Silence spread between the two like a coating of butter, broken only by the occasional mutterings of "stupid filing system" as Angel struggled through the phone cards to decipher Cordelia's P's from her F's. He was trying to call his real estate agent to check on the house he had up there before they left, make sure the services were changed and all. It wouldn't be fun to stumble in the door and find the water wouldn't work, or the electricity was out. Plus a slightly ominous feeling had been growing in his stomach since he remembered he hadn't inquired about the property for sixty odd years. When he finally he found what he was looking for and ripped the card out of the deck Wesley's gravelly voice reached back from the window again.

"… So. We're driving through two states to an entirely unknown city where we have no friends, no contacts, no job and no insurance, and sit around until inspiration strikes. Assuming we even have a residence waiting?"

"Of course we have," Angel said, aiming biggest grin he could manage at Wesley's back, thinking _assuming it hasn't liquidated_. "I told you, I have it all taken care of."

"MmmHmm" Wesley mumbled, not paying attention. Then he turned and looked at Angel over his shoulder. "What about Cordy?" he said, a sad sting coloring his voice. "Have you _taken care_ of her as well?" he asked. Angel's brows closed together, a gloomy shadow drawing on his face as he stared down at the phone numbers without dialing.

"Yeah, I checked her into a private clinic this morning," he dead-panned. "I'm leaving instructions with Gunn."

"Along with a forwarding address I hope." Wesley muttered to the window pane.

"Would you stop?" Angel exclaimed "It's Seattle! It's not like we're dropping off the face of the earth." He grumbled while punching numbers into the phone, "You'd think he'd be happy to live somewhere with proper English rain."

"England," Wesley stressed, turning around fully as Angel listened into the receiver, "had more than rain. It had seasons, Snow, greenery, not just varying degrees of dampness."

"Buy a poncho," Angel mumbled than spoke more directly to the phone. "Yeah I'll hold." Wesley shook his head and turned back to look out at the lobby again. He eyed the balcony above the lobby, wondering if he would see the tell-tale flicker of a sleeve disappearing round the column. Catching glimpses of Connor eavesdropping always gave him pause and a rare cause to smile. He remembered plenty times as a boy when he'd hid himself on the stairs watching the glow of his father's study and drinking in the half heard conversations about Watcher secrets. The more information you had the better off you were, and what was hidden was often the most valuable to you. So Wesley couldn't help silently rooting whenever he spotted Connor listening in, crouched above them all in the balcony shadows. He gave what encouragement he could even if it could come only in silence. But there was nothing up there when he looked; the shadows remained calm and undisturbed.

"How is he?" Wesley asked, looking up the stairs. Angel glanced up from his drumming fingers, saw where Wesley was staring and looked away.

"He's fine," Angel said, in a no nonsense; brook no argument type of voice. Wesley frowned a little and said,

"Last night he wa,"

"He's fine!" Angel's curt bark cut him off, and Wesley stopped. "…He's going to be fine," Angel whispered, and Wes nodded silently, turning around to take his coat off the rack.

"Alright," he said. "I'm going to my apartment. There're some things I need, like clothing." Wesley shrugged into his jacket. "I'll call a mover later for the rest, when I have an address to give them," he said, giving Angel a pointed look which was ignored as the vampire started searching for a pen.

"Don't worry Wes" he said "you can always stay with us until you find someplace else." Wesley's face cracked, in what could pass for a smirk if you felt generous, as he pulled the office door open.

"Well so long as I can find someplace else," he muttered to himself. Angel looked up, hearing the whisper, and a nudge of guilt poked at his heart as he realized what he'd said, but it didn't reach as far as an expression and his face was still smooth when Wesley to turned around saying,

"I'll be back in an hour. We leave at seven?"

"Yeah," Angel said, holding the phone against his shoulder and resuming the search for a pen. "The sooner we put this place behind us the better." there was silence and Angel looked up again when he didn't hear the closing of a door. Wesley stood in the doorway a strange look on his face, contemplating Angel as if he'd grown a new and interesting third thumb. Angel blinked, frowned and spread his hands, dragging the phone cord as he mouthed "what?"

"Nothing." Wesley answered after a moment, then stepped out of the office with one hand on the door. "I'll be back," he said without turning.

"In an hour. We won't wait if you're late." Angel called after him. Wesley glanced back, mild and quick.

"I'll be back," he assured. Angel waited until Wesley climbed the lobby steps and he heard the front door screen rattle shut, then turned back to the receiver and hunched his shoulders round the phone.

"Yeah, I'm here Dev," he said. "I had to get rid of a… employee. Yeah I have employees now, well, had. Anyway that building in Seattle…"

* * *

Outside Wesley slammed the door shut on Angel's Chevy and sat tensely in the seat for a few moments. He took several deep breaths, and wondered idly where the numbness that had dominated his brain lately had run off too. It would be very useful right about now. He reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror to his height. Then pursed lips and shook his head as he revved the engine and pulled off the curb with a squeal, wondering why he was getting himself into this.

* * *

"It _what_…" Angel's face couldn't have been more shocked if he'd just seen his reflection in the mirror. He shifted the phone to his other ear hoping to whatever god was listening that he'd heard wrong. A voice gibbered over the line for a minute before Angel broke in and cut them off with a hysteric, 

"What do you mean it _sunk_!" he stood straight up as he said it, nearly knocking the chair over. The phone voice went into high speed gibber as Angel groaned "Oh my god," and grabbed the chair, flopping back down. "… yeah, yeah, the big fire," Angel replied during breaks. "… Heh, really, the whole city?" He rubbed his forehead "no I haven't really kept up with my history." Another babble from the phone and Angel smirked, "yeah I s'pose that is lucky… no I'll take a look when I get there… well just turn on what you can and let the rest corrode. Uh-huh, thanks Dev." Angel slammed the phone back into it's cradle and leaned back in his chair until it creaked, pressing his right hand fingers into his temple and whispering, "oh hell."

* * *

Connor woke up slowly. He was on his mattress face first, still fully clothed with a sheet wrapped around his legs and the rest of the covers kicked into a mound on the floor. A digital clock blinked on the nightstand by his elbow, reading 4:15 in red numbers. He blinked into the dark room, and watched a mosquito hawk skip along his window, looking for a way out. The stars had faded from the sky he could feel dawn on its way. The mosquito hawk skipped again and he thought about getting up and letting it out, but the thought didn't go very far. He was too tired and his body felt too heavy. 

It was so heavy it felt like he was slowly sinking into the mattress. Like the bed would engulf him like some giant lumpy mouth, swallow him whole, and he'd be unable to move. A little unnerved by that thought he pushed himself onto his side, groaning as he heard every muscle creak when he forced it to work. His body sighed when he let it fall into the mattress again. Maybe never moving wouldn't be so bad after all. He could lie here, and go back to dreaming. He'd been dreaming… about plastic hands and broken glass.

Connor snapped awake fully, wonderland images from his dream churning into something far more real and frightening. He'd been walking down an open air mall and looking in the shattered displays at naked mannequins knocked akimbo, pausing every time to make sure they weren't people. He remembered; yesterday he'd tried to kill himself. He hung on that thought for moment trying to feel something about it, but all he got was a tiny ache in the back of his throat and the beginnings of a headache.

He remembered finding among the wreckage a bomb box half finished and forgotten, and he'd sort of felt sorry for it. He'd gone in, shoes crunching on broken glass as he followed the line of yellow wires running out of the box. The lines ran to another box, then another and another, all around the store. He'd looked at it them for awhile, then picked up a box and started tying the wires together just like Fred had taught him too. He remembered the mannequin that'd sat next to him while he worked, and how the painted eyes had stared just past his shoulder. He remembered thinking about Cordy and how perfect it was for her, how the scene suited her.

Connor moved his arm up and rested his hand on the back of his neck. All the people… they'd pleaded and whined a lot. He slid his other arm up in front of his face, his fist curling in his hair and his nose pressed into his inner wrist. He couldn't remember exactly why he'd done that, stolen people, except that he'd wanted to be… noticed. To make a scene. Cordy deserved a scene. A big blow out. Then Angel… Dad, had come, and there'd been blood and rubble, and crashing things. He didn't remember much after that except screaming. He'd screamed, and screamed and screamed, until his throat was raw and he ran out of air. Though he didn't remember what he'd been screaming for. He was pretty sure he didn't want to. He'd learned long ago the value of forgetting.

A soft knock sounded behind him and he buried his head further into his arms as the door swung open. He felt Angel's shadow fall across him and it sent goose bumps up his arms. He clenched his hands tighter and tried not to shiver.

"Connor?" Angel whispered. Connor didn't answer, but stared at the indigo sky beginning to lighten outside and the dancing bug that still hadn't landed.

"Connor." Angel said again, fuller. He shifted a load of cardboard boxes under his arm and looked at the hunched form of his son. The only reply was the rustle of Connor's breathing. Angel bent and set the flattened boxes by the door, saying,

"Were leaving soon Connor, you should pack up whatever you're bringing." Then he left.

Connor lay still for a few moments listening to the receding foot steps. Damn, he thought. Now if he didn't get up Angel would come back, and _talk_… he didn't want to deal with Angel now. He sighed and counted down; One, two, _three_, and hauled himself forward with a grunt. Sitting up made everything hurt again and he moaned, feeling like shredded apple peals. But he ran his hands through his hair and pushed himself off the mattress. Then shuffled over to the wall and picked up one of the white slabs of cardboard, staring down at the pictorial folding instructions.

So it was time to run again already. Or "move" as angel had called it. Call it what you want, Connor figured, it still came to the same thing, running. Whatever; that was his new word of the month; Gunn said every teenager needed to know that word, so, whatever. He wasn't going to go.

He dropped the folded box on top of his dresser maybe more forcefully than necessary and yanked open the top drawer. Something in him just naturally rebelled against the idea of being dragged off like a piece of property. He could go back and live in his loft. Let the others live and work and die and where they willed, he'd be fine up there with the stuffed beast heads and the smell of Cordelia's perfume. Her scent would lull him to sleep like it always had and, and… it would be fine. He yanked out a pair of jeans and shoved then into the box so hard it wobbled on the mantle.

Anyway, he was tired of running and fighting, and chasing. Tired of staying a step ahead, and _surviving_. God he was so tired, and sore. He wanted to crawl back into the covers and keep crawling until he'd tunneled away from the world. He wanted to be nothing, or he wanted the world to be nothing, either way so long as there was no contact between the two.

He stopped and thought seriously for a moment about leaving. He imagined himself climbing out the window onto the street and just walking away. He didn't remember where Angel'd said they'd be running off too. Wherever it was, he didn't have to go. Nothing could _make_ him. It wasn't like they could tie him up and cart him along. Well, they could. But he could get away; he was good at getting out of ropes. He could live with the window washers and street venders, on unlit corners where people shifted around and passed small things back and forth between their pockets. It wasn't that bad, in comparison to some things. But, it sounded much too exhausting. He pulled out another fistful of ragged shirts from the dresser and packed them up. Then dropped the full box onto the floor by his feet and started folding a new one, his muscles aching as he worked and crying for the bed that lay behind him.

The irony was, he thought, getting up now and going with Angel would be easier than trying to find a squat to sleep. If he was honest with himself, he was just too tired to say no. Staying or going, following their lead left the decision up to them. He didn't feel capable of making decisions right now. Any choice that came up made his mind blink off like a television set. He was blank. He couldn't say yes, or no, or even commit to a maybe, and staying with Angel meant he didn't have too. If he let himself be taken away he could do the only thing he really felt capable of at this point, and go to sleep until the decision and the need for an answer went away. He wanted everything to go away so much. He'd whispered it to himself as he fell asleep last night; and maybe, just maybe if he could lie down, and sleep and make everything go away, he could make himself stop thinking again too. Thinking hurt now, and anyways, it was a bad habit that'd only gotten him in trouble since he came to this damn world, Father, Cordy, Jasmine… Angel. Everyone.

So he stayed, and stuffed piles of clothes he never wore into flimsy boxes like Angel said, and he followed and obeyed. Like a good little boy… Connor scoffed into the empty room.

It didn't take him long to fill the boxes, and half way through the second box he ran out of clothes. Then he wandered around the rooms in that wing of the hotel picking up odds and ends that struck his fancy, or his horror. Anything he had a gut reaction to he snatched up. He didn't ask himself why, and didn't think about what he was doing. Knowing that was a question best left for another day. When his boxes were full he pulled on the leather jacket that stilled smelled of heroin and dead men, stuffed his game-boy in one pocket, and hefted the boxes up. Then he turned around and looked at the room he'd spent four months trying to avoid and whispered into it,

"Bye," then he backed out the door and shut it firmly with his foot.

Connor crept down the eerie halls to the Hyperion's lobby for the last time and slipped out the back doors, which were propped open with stakes under their cracks. He shuffled across the stone garden and jasmine plants, following the sounds of dragging and bumping that'd lead him through the hotel.

Wesley's silver mini-van was backed up onto the curb just past the vine covered gates, with the trunk lid held high, and Angel's back shimmied back and froth in front of it as he worked.

Angel gave a firm tug on the pole holding the trunk lid above his head, just to check for strength. The locking… thingy on Wesley's van had broken and he'd spent the last hour pushing the lid up, starting to pack bags into the trunk and then having it give way and hit him mid back. Moderately satisfied the pipe wouldn't betray him and give out Angel picked up one of the boxes from the pile of luggage by his feet and ducked back into the trunk.

Bent over on his hands he gave the box a good shove, sending it as far back as it would go and mentally grumbled about the min-van being so useful for moving that he had to leave his beautiful Chevy behind. They just had to make do with what they could at short notice. And Wesley's van had more trunk space. More importantly it had a trunk space that didn't smell of formaldehyde. Angel grabbed a duffle below him and tossed it in, then rested his hands on the trunk floor for a minute, hanging his head with a sigh. There was so much that need to be done,

Maybe Wesley was right and he was making a mistake. Maybe he was being hasty, moving them too fast. He knew it wasn't fair of him to be uprooting them all like this. Poor Wesley didn't even have clean clothes with him, and he'd have to leave much of his precious library behind. Maybe he was overreacting and all they needed was to get back to work. He shook his head, too many maybes, he had to listen to his gut, and his said…if they stayed, they'd have nothing.

They would stay under the Hyperion's roof, locked into their routine; answering phone calls and exorcising client's bathrooms. The days would grow darker and emptier for them, and they would slow down, pulled by a despair that would grow until finally one of them just stopped. And Angel's undead heart lurched in his chest as he thought of coming home one long dull evening, walking up those same red stairs, to find Connor hanging from the ceiling by his neck, or lying with his arteries slit and blood pooling around him, or maybe just gone… with a cold empty room and missing shoes. Then Angel would follow him whether it was out the door or out of this world. He didn't want that for either of them.

Angel backed out of the now half full trunk and turned around to head for the hotel, then stopped and blinked. Connor stood a few feet behind him, his hair falling in his face as usual, one box held in his hands and another sitting by his feet, watching him with a blank stare. There was none of his usual "bite me" attitude or restless energy.

"Connor." Angel whispered, the name coming out like a question on his lips. He shook off his surprise and stepped forward. "How long you been standing there pal?" he asked. Connor shrugged one shoulder and looked to the side at dead leaf that had blown up against his sneaker. Angel came forward and picked up the box at his feet.

"Here, I'll get these; we'll get these packed up and be out of here in no time." Angel said and moved back to the car, watching Connor over his shoulder. Connor didn't speak but followed behind him, eyes still on the ground and head bent. Angel frowned and packed the box into the trunk, frowning even more at the light weight and lack of metal clunking that usually came from a weapons chest. He took the other box from Connor's hands and hefted, surprised again by the light weight. Connor never went anywhere without his weapons. What kind of twisted world was it when you worried that your son _didn't_ pack butcher knives along, he felt like his life had started taking after the Adams Family. Inclining his head slightly Angel looked down to catch Connor's eye.

"You sure you've got everything you want to bring? No last minute, socks or books or, you know… iron clubs?" he asked. Sounding a little too hopeful even to himself. Connor's head swung gently back and forth, his eyes still not leaving the ground were his shoe was toying with the tattered old leave under his heel.

"Alright, it's your decisions" Angel said, turning back to the trunk and sliding the last box in with the others. He stood up and turned around saying, "so do you want to sit…" and broke off when he found only an empty curb where Connor had been standing. He looked back at the car just in time to see Connor's leg disappear into the back seat and the car door slam shut. "…up front," Angel finished in a deflated mumbled. He shook his head and slammed the trunk lid down. Then went around the car and climbed into the driver's seat.

Connor leaned against the window, one leg pulled to his chest and hands locked around the knee. Outside wire fences rattled in a light breeze, and Angel counted the minutes ticking by on the car clock while he watched for the tell tale sign of Wesley walking up the street. Angel tapped his fingers on the lower lip of the steering wheel, restless, and found his eyes drifting up to Connor's image in the rear view mirror.

He smiled sadly as he took the moment to look at his son. Maybe he was just a sucker for lost causes, Darla, himself, his whole twisted family. What was left of it anyway. Hell, maybe they were _all_ crazy. He thought back to that joke card Cordelia'd gotten him of a far side cartoon of a gothic vamp punk holding up a drugstore demanding Prozac. It almost made him laugh, the image of himself on anti-depressants. At the time he _had_ laughed, loud and hard, and Cordy had joined in. God, sweet Cordy… Angel shut his eyes and forced himself to swallow down the pain that rushed up his throat. There would be time for her, but right now, he looked back up at the mirror.

Connor would be alright, he had to be alright. He just needed some time. Time Angel was more than willing to give. Without turning in his seat, not wanting to make a match out of staring, Angel cleared his throat and said

"Connor?" there wasn't any answer from the backseat, so angel plunged ahead, staring down at the dashboard in front of him. "Connor, I hope you're listening right now. I want you to know that you can come to me, for anything, whenever you feel like talking, even if it's just what kind of food you want in the fridge. But I also want you to know, I understand if you don't. Sometimes it feels better. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, I can wait, whenever your,"

Angel's soft voice was cut off by the opening of the front passenger door. The noise of Wesley climbing seemed unusually loud after the quiet that had penetrated the car as he came in saying,

"Sorry I took so long; the blasted pop-up blocker wouldn't work. I thought I'd print out some crime statistics for," Wesley stopped halfway through unfolding a sheet of paper and looked back and forth between the front and back seats. Connor staring sideways out the window and angel staring straight out the windshield as if they were two unrelated photo's rotated in opposite directions. "Did I interrupt something?" Wesley ventured, looking back and forth. Angel blinked, shook his head and turned the ignition.

"We'll talk about it later," he said as the car revved and angel pulled out into the street.

* * *


End file.
